Brian had a little surgery today, and is the only person I know whose deviated septum was truly a deviated septum. We half joked about it for a year, but after being miserable from a 95% closed septum and our insurance spiking at the beginning of the year, he pulled the trigger on the surgery.
It’s a common procedure, but the poor guy looks pretty sad tonight.
For that reason, we fully decked our halls yesterday, the day after getting back in town from Thanksgiving. (That means it’s also decked with laundry.)
There was a sad baby, a timeout, tears, and an acai bowl splattered on the wall, all while Michael Buble’s “Silent Night” played in the background.
Amid the chaos, the little looks of pure wonder in their eyes while decorating the tree with horizontal candy cane ornaments makes me SO excited for this season.
(Admiring décor with a bat is probably less than ideal.)
Roscoe will be way merrier when he’s introduced to the NSYNC Christmas album.
I have a lonoooong few days of work ahead of me, so I’m wrapping up my evening flipping through pictures, reminiscing on all the delights of being in full mom mode these past few days.
I’m struggling with G starting to outgrow his daily nap. He and Roscoe finally have synchronized nap times, and keeping it that way is imperative to my 3:30/4:00 mental stability. Transitioning Gus from his still much needed nap to an occasional “rest time” has been frustrating, but the heavens smiled upon me this week.
A few days ago, I could still hear a lot of rustling in Gus’s room. My fingers were crossed that he’d fall asleep, but eventually, I went in to check on him.
He was all jumbled in his blankets with only his head popping out, a little contorted, but very stiff. And HUGE eyes.
“Hey bud, why aren’t you slee—Gus? What are you doing?”
“I’m a hot dog.”
Like I said, the giant eyes really added a nice effect.
His little stuffed animal Chuck E. had been included.
“We are cooking.” (I mean, not even a BLINK.)
It took everything I had to retain a naptime boss face. Upon request, I blew on them, re-wrapped them both in their buns, and VOILA! They (they, really?) fell right to sleep in their comfortable bun cocoons.
Solid nap times compliments of the Costco food court this week, and just another illustration of Costco’s applicability and welcomed influence in so many, many aspects of my life.
Do I know dinner time? Come on. I’m a mom. I’m the queen of this ish.
I’m only a few years in, but that’s enough for me to laugh hysterically at the thought of dinner being a leisurely meal for any mom with young kids.
Who forgot a spoon? Who spilled ? The sippy cup lid is the wrong color. Someone’s food is too hot and needs a little ice. A hurried potty run for the new man in undies. Why is the fridge door open? I need a knife to cut my baby’s food smaller. Someone needs more water…because it’s being used as a marinade on the spaghetti.
You already know.
So, exactly what would you estimate dinner time mileage to be? Should we require sports bras instead of hair nets? I asked Brian what kind of distance he thought we traveled during meals, but since his unenthused guess work could not qualm my curiosity, I wore a pedometer for five dinners.
Here are my results.
Night one: TACO SALAD
Flights climbed: 2 floors, looking for what couldn’t possibly be the only clean sippy cup in our house, but was.
Night two: THAI CURRY
Night three: SPAGHETTI
N/A. I lost track while cleaning up the kitchen bomb detonation spaghetti night inevitably is. I didn’t even get a picture of the upside down bowl on the floor with sauce splattered everywhere. I was crouched under the table waving a white flag.
Night four: BRISKET
Night five: LETTUCE WRAPS, WITH A SIDE OF FRUITY PEBBLES
I gave myself props for busting out a quick, light meal, but G only wanted cereal. It turned into Fruity Pebble lettuce wraps. I don’t foresee it being a Food Network feature anytime soon.
In conclusion to this very prolific experiment, a total of 1883 steps were walked during dinner alone in four days. It can be assumed that my spaghetti night surrender would have made that at least around 2000 steps.
According to The Walking Site, an average’s person’s stride computes to about 2,000 steps per mile.
That means, I traveled at least one mile during 5 dinners.
Should we dump a cooler of iced Gatorade on the hostess of Thanksgiving dinner? If nothing else, I’m at least pitching Orange Theory a spin-off idea called “Kitchen Theory.”
Feel free to share this with any parent that needs electrolytes for dessert.
Does anyone else’s face hurt from having a scowl all day today?
Regardless of your presidential nominee of choice, you have a little crease in between your eyebrows, right?
Because today was weird, right?
Either your candidate lost, your face was rubbed in anti-Trump everyyyything all day, or you were struggling to get your Canadian immigration papers together.
Luckily, America, there is Botox for these types of days.
I was unsure of my vote until the eleventh hour, but I headed to the poll (conveniently right before dinner time) (alone) (hehe).
I told Gus I was going to vote. He asked, “A BOAT?!”
“V-v-vote! For the president!”
“Oh! YEAH! Row, row, row, mama!”
I am not completely confident in the candidate that I row, row, rowed my vote for. Regardless of who I supported in the eleventh hour, I AM confident that I would be publicly attacked if I voiced my opinion via social media. I AM confident that I would retaliate by tagging my attackers in unflattering pictures. Get outta here, Becky!
Could it be because my childhood was scarred after a clown showed up at my preschool Halloween party? Clowns were a concerning species of human when I was 5, and judging by current news, they still are. They disturbed me even more than ET. My mom dropped my terrified self off, and encouraged me to stay. She kept telling me it was just a man, which was even more chilling, because why would a grown man dress like that? Does anyone know him? Doesn’t he have a job to be at?
Could it be that I associate Halloween with accidentally locking myself in a single user bathroom at a church Halloween party when I was fifteen? No one could hear my shouts because the industrial sized church vacuum was being used. I oathed to never hog the handicap individual bathroom again, even if it did have the best mirror to admire my Bath and Body Works eye glitter. At that moment, all I saw in the mirror was tear stained Cleopatra makeup. Bless the seven year old that finally wandered in to throw away the Werther’s from her trick or treat bucket.
OR, could it be that Halloween meant getting asked on scary dates to haunted houses, suspenseful movies, and freaky corn mazes? The scary part was less the activity, and more running from the guy you were with. Hoping he wouldn’t grab my hand or try to cuddle always got my adrenaline flowing. (I’m crinkling my nose because TRUE DAT every year.)
Thank goodness for my kids making Halloween a million times more enjoyable.
Can kids borrow Trump’s slogan? “Make holidays great again.”
Thank you to my neighbors who dropped full size candy bars into the bag of my seven toothed child! I appreciate this contribution to my depleted mom-emergency chocolate stash. It’s a real upgrade from stale chocolate chips.